This seemed to be enlightening.

Ah, yes, a jumper probably. They had had a jade-green jumper at that price, she believed. If I would sit down for a moment she would send someone to see if it were still unsold.

I felt very anxious while I waited, but the emissary presently returned with the garment over her arm.

Yes, that was undoubtedly the one. She remembered how much Moddom had admired it. It had suited Moddom so well too.

While it was being packed up, for I decided to take it with me, a small boy arrived with several hat-boxes, which he put down on the floor.

Red-hair proceeded to unpack them, carefully, almost reverently, extracting the hats from the folds of surrounding tissue-paper and placing them one by one in various cupboards and drawers. Presently she drew forth from one of the boxes—I felt sure I was not mistaken—that very blue hat which I had admired only the day before upon the head of my wife.

I gave an involuntary exclamation. Red-hair looked at me.

"Surely," I said, feeling inwardly rather proud at recognising it again—"surely that hat is exactly like one that my wife bought yesterday."

Red-hair was hurt. "It is the same hat," she said coldly. "We never make two models alike."

I tried to mollify her. "I can't understand her sending it back," I said. "I think it's an extremely pretty hat, and it suits her so well. But perhaps there was some alteration necessary. It may not have quite fitted or something?"

Red-head dived gracefully into the box and drew forth a note from the tissue-paper billows.

A faint flicker expressive of I knew not what hidden emotion seemed to pass for one moment over her aristocratic features as she read it. But it vanished instantaneously, and she turned to me with her previous air of haughty and imperturbable aloofness.

"Moddom is not keeping the hat," she said.

I felt somehow a little snubbed, and said no more, and, my parcel appearing at this moment, I paid and departed.

Nancy's joy over the jumper more than came up to my expectations. When she had calmed down a little I bethought myself of the matter of the hat.

"Oh, yes," said Nancy in reply to my question, "I sent it back after all. It won't matter in the least now that you have bought this."

"But why didn't you keep it?" I said.

"Well, I really felt I didn't like it so very much," said Nancy, "and, as you didn't seem quite to like it either—"

"My dear girl," I protested, "I told you I thought it was charming."

"Well, anyway you said that blue didn't suit me," persisted my wife. "You did, George."

There was a moment's pause. It was no use saying anything. Suddenly Nancy jumped up and clutched me by the arm.

"George," she said anxiously, "you didn't, you didn't say anything about that hat to the girl in the shop, did you?"

"I believe I mentioned that I thought it was extremely pretty, and that I was sorry you weren't keeping it," I replied airily. "But why?" For my wife's face had suddenly assumed an expression of horrified dismay.

"I shall never be able to go into that shop again," she wailed, "never. I wrote them a note saying that I was not keeping the hat because my husband very much disliked it, and that I didn't care ever to wear anything of which he didn't approve."

What is really very unfair about the whole thing is that I know that Nancy thinks me entirely to blame. Indeed she told me so. When I ventured to point out that she had not been quite truthful in the matter she was at first genuinely and honestly amazed, and subsequently so indignant that I was fain ultimately to apologise.

In looking back upon the episode I am filled with admiration for the red-haired girl. I consider that she showed extraordinary self-restraint in what must have been a peculiarly tempting situation.

R.F.

Raw Hand (at sea for first time and observing steamer's red and green lights). "'ERE'S SOME LIGHTS ON THE STARBOARD SIDE, SIR."

Officer. "WELL, WHAT IS IT?"

R.H. "LOOKS TO ME LIKE A CHEMIST'S SHOP, SIR."

SMALL-TALK.

"Of course you must come," said Mary; "it's nonsense to say you can't dance."

Mary is married to my first cousin, Thomas. I looked at Thomas, but saw no hope of support. Thomas labours under the delusion that he can jazz.

"It isn't only the dancing," I protested; "it's the conversational strain. Besides, as one of the original founders of the League to Minimise Gossip amongst General Staff Officers—"

"Rot!" said Thomas; "you simply let your partners do the talking. You needn't even listen. Just say 'Quite' in your most official tone whenever you hear them saying nothing."

Thomas, although my first cousin, is not bright; but I had to go.

For the first few dances I escaped; the crowd round the door was so dense that I saw at once that I should be trampled to death if I attempted to enter. Then I was caught by Mary and introduced to a total stranger.

I suppose there are people who do not mind kicking a total stranger round the room to the strain of cymbals, a motor siren and a frying-pan. I fancy the lady expressed a desire to stop, but as her words were lost in the orchestral pandemonium I realised that as long as the dulcet chords continued conversation was impossible; so we danced on.

Fortunately too, when the interval came, she was full of small-talk.

"Isn't the floor good? And I always like this band."

"Quite," said I.

"Rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses to give a dance."

"Quite," said I.

"Especially when their eldest boy, the one, you know, who was so frightfully good at golf or something, has just got into a mess with—"

"Quite," said I, while she plunged into a flood of reminiscences. She did not ask whether I could jazz, mainly, I think, because I had already danced with her. I concentrated my thoughts on the best means of avoiding Mary when the music began again, and just threw in an occasional "Quite" to keep the lady in a good temper.

But there was no escaping Mary.

"You must go and dance with Miss Carter," she told me, adducing incontrovertible arguments. I am terrified of Miss Carter, who can only be described as "statuesque" and always does the right thing (which makes her crushing to the verge of discourtesy). I am always being asked if I know whether she is "only twenty-two." It was not without satisfaction that I initiated her into my style of dancing.

To my horror, when we stopped she sat in silence, regarding me with an air of expectant boredom. I racked my brains.

"Good floor, isn't it?" said I.

"Quite," said Miss Carter.

"Jolly good band too."

"Quite," said Miss Carter.

"And rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses, don't you think?"

She said it again. By this time I felt convinced that all the other couples within hearing were listening to us. Miss Carter is that sort of person.

"Of course," I said with a nervous laugh, "it's rather absurd for me to say anything about it, because, you know, dancing isn't much in my line."

"Quite," said Miss Carter.

That settled it; I felt I must stop her at all costs. I cleared my throat and spoke as distinctly as I could.

"I'm always being asked a conundrum, Miss Carter, and you're the one person who can tell me the true answer. Am I permitted to ask it?"

"Quite," said Miss Carter, for the first time almost smiling. I plucked up courage.

"It's this: how old are you?"

She stopped herself just in time. Her answer was given in a tone which